When the Clouds Roll By (27 page)

“More roast beef, Gilbert?” Mrs. Yarborough offered him the platter.

“Don’t mind if I do. Delicious as always, Mrs. Y.” Out of habit, he grasped the serving plate with both hands, forgetting his left arm still lacked strength. The platter tipped, and slabs of tender, juicy roast nearly slid off the edge before Mary rescued him.

Setting the platter on the table between them, she shot him a green-eyed smile filled with empathy . . . and more. It was clear she’d fallen in love with him. And soon, he would break her heart. A pang of regret stabbed like a bayonet. Mary was a good girl, deserving so much better than he’d offered, and he’d taken advantage at every opportunity. Only her Christian morals and firm resolve had prevented him from giving his desires free rein.

But the discovery that Sam hid a dark and shameful secret had awakened him to his true desires, and now not even Mary’s tender caresses and selfless devotion were enough to deter him from battling for Annemarie’s love with every weapon at his disposal.

Even if it meant destroying the man he once called friend.

Cherry pie and piping hot coffee concluded the awkwardly quiet meal, and as Mrs. Yarborough and Patrice cleared the table, the pastor invited the guests to return to the parlor. Samuel and Annemarie went straight to the far end of the sofa, obviously putting as much distance between themselves and Gilbert as possible.

Fine. Gilbert intended on prying the desired information from Dr. Russ anyway, so he deliberately chose the chair next to the doctor’s. Noticing Mary glancing around for where she should sit, he cast her an apologetic frown. “We’ll be telling war stories, Mary. You’d much rather visit with the ladies, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d love to hear a good war story.” Her features hardened into a steely smile as she set one hand firmly upon Gilbert’s shoulder
.

Pastor Yarborough brought over a spindly, straight-backed chair and placed it next to Gilbert’s. “Here you are, Miss McClarney. And I’ll make sure these fine gentlemen mind their words for the ladies’ delicate sensitivities.”

Mary uttered a dismissive laugh. “No need to guard your words on my account. I’m a nurse at the Army and Navy Hospital, don’t forget. There’s little on God’s green earth I haven’t heard already.”

“All the more reason we should be considerate.” Samuel drew Annemarie’s hand into his lap and cradled it tenderly. “I suggest we spare the ladies—and ourselves.”

Gilbert’s jaw ached with the effort required to keep his expression impassive when all he wanted to do was grab Samuel Vickary by the lapels and beat his face to a pulp. But no, he wouldn’t win any points with Annemarie that way. She’d have to see for herself Samuel wasn’t the honorable man she believed him to be—and Gilbert was every bit the man she remembered and once loved.

“You make a good point, Sam.” Gilbert stretched out his good leg and rested his hand atop his cane. “Why ruin an otherwise pleasant evening reminiscing about a time we’d all rather forget?”

“I agree.” Dr. Russ fingered one of the doilies covering the chair arms. “I, for one, have had all the war talk I can stomach for a lifetime.”

“I’m sure you have, Doctor.” With a casual chuckle, Gilbert added, “Pastor, this might be a good time to break out that bottle of brandy I brought. Nothing like a good cognac to top off a delicious dinner and smooth the way for relaxing conversation.”

The pastor made a few noises about why, as a man of the cloth, he
really
shouldn’t imbibe, but how could he refuse to partake of Gilbert’s generous contribution to the evening? He hurried to the hallway to fetch the bottle, and shortly afterward Mrs. Yarborough carried in a tray of crystal brandy snifters. Even if Gilbert hadn’t witnessed firsthand the pastor’s penchant for a glass of fine wine with a sumptuous meal, the fact the Yarboroughs even owned a set of snifters spoke volumes. Gilbert wasn’t at all surprised when the pastor poured himself a generous splash.

He wasn’t surprised, either, when Samuel stoically refused, as did the ladies. Dr. Russ accepted a glass, however—definitely part of the plan—and sipped it slowly as Gilbert asked how he enjoyed life in Hot Springs.

“It’s a charming city, a lot to offer.” Dr. Russ swirled his snifter. “But, of course, I’ve visited here several times. I was born and raised near Fort Smith, if you recall.”

“Yes, a fellow Arkansan.” Gilbert raised his glass. “Finest state in the U.S. of A. And we Arkansas boys sure proved our worth in France, didn’t we?”

Annemarie stiffened. “I thought we’d agreed not to discuss the Great War.”

“Great. That certainly describes it.” Gilbert rubbed his left thigh as he sipped his brandy. “Most every country in the Northern Hemisphere, plus Australia, New Zealand, parts of Africa and South America—”

“Humph.” Patrice, seated next to her mother across the room, lifted her nose in the air. “War is what happens when you leave the government of nations to men.”

“Now, dearest . . .” Mrs. Yarborough cast her daughter a warning glance.

Mary sat forward. “Hasn’t it been a lovely spring? Do you garden, Mrs. Yarborough? My mum always has me plant pansies in the window boxes so we’ll have plenty of blooms to brighten the house come springtime. I think this year’s batch is—”

“Mary, be a dear and fetch the brandy.” Groaning inwardly, Gilbert handed her his glass. He didn’t need a meddling Irish nurse derailing his agenda.

Mary started to rise, but as she cut a sharp glance his way, Mrs. Yarborough leapt from her chair. “Keep your seat, Miss McClarney. I
am
the hostess, after all.” She retrieved the bottle from a side table and topped off Gilbert’s glass. “Anyone else?”

“I’ll take a bit more.” Dr. Russ drained his snifter and then extended it for a refill. “Excellent vintage, Gilbert. A fine Rémy Martin, with hints of jasmine and hazelnut, if I know my cognac.”

“And you do!” Dr. Russ, a brandy connoisseur? Maybe Gilbert’s luck was on the upswing. He could certainly use a bit of good fortune after his disastrous losses at Oaklawn this week. Should have put his money on St. Allan as his tipster advised. The two-year-old colt had set a new track record. “So there. Something to talk about besides war. Although I doubt the ladies would enjoy a discussion of the finer qualities of cognac any better. What about horse racing, Dr. Russ? Do you bet on the ponies?”

“Most definitely not. Might just as well light a match to a twenty-dollar bill as take a chance at the track.”

Mrs. Yarborough cleared her throat. “I daresay, ladies, perhaps we should adjourn to the dining room and allow the gentlemen to discuss whatever amuses them.” She set the bottle of brandy on the table between Gilbert and Dr. Russ and then signaled the ladies to follow her. “Miss McClarney, perhaps you’d share your cultivation tips. My pansies never quite seem to thrive.”

Yes, indeed, Gilbert’s luck was turning. Without Mary standing sentinel or the distraction of watching Samuel fawn over Annemarie, maybe he could finally get down to business.

29

G
ilbert was up to something. Annemarie felt certain. The look in his eyes, the smirk that curled his lip for the briefest of moments when Mrs. Yarborough suggested the ladies retire to the dining room—no word described it other than
smug
.

Mary sensed it, too, if Annemarie wasn’t mistaken. The girl stood, her steps faltering. “We won’t be staying too late, now, will we? Mum will worry.”

Gilbert waved her away with the tip of his cane. “Go along, Mary. Have a nice chat with the ladies.”

Annemarie shifted on the sofa, giving Gilbert her back. She entwined her fingers with Sam’s and cast him a pleading gaze as she whispered, “Maybe we should go now. Gilbert’s determined to get himself drunk, and Donald along with him, from the looks of things. This will only end badly.”

Samuel offered a none-too-confident smile of reassurance. “I’ll keep an eye on things, make sure neither of them gets out of hand.” He brought her fingertips to his lips for a gentle kiss and then gave a weak laugh as he nodded in Dr. Russ’s direction. “Besides, I’m afraid Donald’s already beyond the point of needing me to drive us all home.”

“Samuel Vickary.” Dr. Russ slurred his words. “Are you referring to my love affair with brandy?”

Gilbert’s harsh chuckle pierced the air. “I do believe we’re kindred spirits, Donald, my man. What else besides brandy so soothingly warms a gentleman’s insides with so little risk to his heart? Certainly not any woman I’ve ever met.”

Annemarie glanced over her shoulder in time to see Mary wince. Again, she turned to Sam. “I don’t like where this is headed. Let’s make our excuses and leave.
Please
.”

Worry crept into Sam’s eyes. He pushed off the sofa and helped Annemarie to her feet, then kept her hand tucked firmly against his side as he addressed Dr. Russ. “Donald, perhaps we ought to call it an evening. Don’t you have an early surgery in the morning?”

“Rescheduled for eleven-thirty.” The doctor slanted a knowing look toward Samuel, his gaze darting meaningfully toward Gilbert and then to his brandy snifter.

Their exchanged glances set Annemarie’s teeth on edge. Exactly how many of them here tonight had ulterior motives?

Patrice sidled over to where Mary now stood. “Honestly, Annemarie, I should think you’d have discovered by now it’s useless arguing with a man. They’ll have things their way, right or wrong—and it’s usually wrong.”

“Patrice!
Must
you insult our guests?” Despite a simpering smile, Mrs. Yarborough hissed the words like an exasperated mother cat. Her gaze finally settled on Annemarie, and she extended a beckoning hand. “Come now, dear. No reason to rush off, is there? We ladies will have a cozy chat in the other room.”

Outnumbered, Annemarie had no choice but to concede. But even if she could put aside her concerns about leaving Gilbert and Samuel in the same room together, the thought of whiling away an hour or more in idle conversation with the prim Patrice Yarborough, her obsequious mother, and the plucky young nurse who only had eyes for Gilbert—

Lord, help!
Her fingers ached with the need to escape to her pottery wheel.

Samuel shifted his stance uneasily as he watched the ladies retreat to the dining room. Before Mrs. Yarborough whisked the French doors shut behind them, Annemarie shot him one last desperate glance. The look in her huge brown eyes reminded him of the confused and terrified deer he’d cornered in a ravine long ago on a boyhood hunting trip.

Cornered. Exactly how he felt just now. He yearned to leave as badly as Annemarie, but the tingling tightness in his gut told him to bide his time while the evening played out.

“Sit down and pour yourself some cognac, Sam.” Gilbert gestured with his own glass. “Good for what ails you.”

“Thanks, but at least one of us should stay sober.” He glanced toward the pastor, who had somehow managed to fall asleep amidst all the commotion. The softly snoring cleric’s empty brandy snifter dangled from his fingertips. Samuel relieved him of the glass and set it on an end table.

Donald chuckled. “Should we help the poor fellow up to his bed?”

“Leave him,” Gilbert replied. “The old man never could hold his liquor. One drink and he’s out like a snuffed candle.”

“Convenient, isn’t it? The pastor out cold, the ladies in the other room . . .” Donald’s tone no longer held even the suggestion of inebriation. He set down his glass with a
thunk
, crossed one leg over the opposite knee, and folded his hands. “Okay, Gilbert, you have us where you want us. Time to pay the piper. What ‘tune’ would you have us dance to tonight?”

Gilbert’s nostrils flared. He blinked several times and then gulped his brandy. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Picking up on Donald’s cues, Samuel entered the fray. “Don’t pretend, Gilbert. If I didn’t realize it before, I do now. You orchestrated this whole evening for a purpose.” He backed off slightly and gave his ear a thoughtful tug. “With one possible exception, of course. You were as taken aback to find me here with Annemarie as we were to learn the Yarboroughs were awaiting your arrival.”

“You’ve got me there, Sam.” A nervous laugh vibrated Gilbert’s chest. “Part of what you say is true. Mother finally coerced her prodigal son into attending church last Sunday, and when I happened to glimpse Donald across the way, I thought it would be nice to get reacquainted. And knowing what charming hosts the Yarboroughs are, not to mention Patrice would be at home . . .” He spread his hands as if the other men couldn’t possibly deny the logic in his reasoning.

Donald snorted. “I’m at the hospital fifty hours or more a week. You couldn’t pop in there to say hello? Or invite me to meet you at a restaurant or coffeehouse? Why bring Miss Yarborough and her parents into this at all, when clearly they have no idea what your real intentions are?”

“You keep hinting about my
real intentions
.” Gilbert’s chin jerked. “What would those be, dare I ask?”

Samuel jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from throttling the man. “Answer the question, Gilbert.”

“Which one? I heard two. Or was it three?”

Frustration clawed at Samuel’s nerves. He sank onto the sofa, elbows braced on his knees. “Stop playing us for fools and give us a straight answer.”

Sweat popping out on his upper lip, Gilbert massaged his left thigh until Samuel wondered how he kept from rubbing a hole through his trousers. Finally, he pinned Donald with an icy stare. “Admit it, Doc. You know there’s bad blood between Sam and me. Since your loyalty is obviously to him—and seeing as how you’ve already determined I have ulterior motives—why would I assume you’d give me the time of day?”

Donald heaved a frustrated sigh. “Why wouldn’t I, Gil? You were my patient. I cared about you then, and I care what happens to you now.”

“Right. And I’ve got a surefire insider tip for you at the races this weekend.”

Samuel and Donald exchanged looks. Gambling, drinking . . . and, judging from the sweating, dilated pupils, and increasingly noticeable muscle tics, most likely morphine addiction. Signs Samuel should have picked up on long ago. He’d certainly had plenty of experience talking and praying wounded doughboys through their dependence on painkillers.

He rose and went to stand in front of Gilbert’s chair. Unceremoniously he relieved Gilbert of his brandy snifter. “You’ve had enough for one night. Why don’t you go home? I can call Zachary for you. We’ll see to Mary.”

“Some nerve you’ve got,
Chaplain
Vickary.” Gilbert spat the words, his mouth curling into an ugly snarl. “So faithful and pious, with your butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth charm. How can Annemarie not see right through your posturing?”

Now Donald stood, inserting himself between them—and probably saving Samuel from doing something he’d regret. His fists ached with the need to wipe that smug smile off his former friend’s face.

“Sam’s right,” Donald said. “You need to leave before you disgrace yourself more than you already have.”

Gilbert laughed out loud. “I’m willing to bet my army pension that I’m not the only one in this room who’s disgraced himself.” He gripped his cane with both hands, drew it to his shoulder, and pretended to fire it like a rifle—straight at Samuel’s chest. “Gotcha.”

Samuel recoiled with a shudder. For the space of half a second his vision clouded, and he was back in a bloody field in France.

“Sam.” Donald’s grip bit into his upper arms. “Sam, sit down.
Now
. Let me—”

“No—I’m—” Samuel’s pulse thrummed in his ears. He sensed the darkness creeping closer, but he fought it.
The Lord is my shepherd . . . Yea, though I walk through the valley . . .

“Confession is good for the soul, Sam.” Gilbert’s taunting voice echoed as if it came from deep inside a tomb, bouncing off the sides, slamming into Samuel’s brain. “Who’d you kill, Sam? Braswell, wasn’t it? Doesn’t sound German to me.”

The ringing in Samuel’s ears intensified until it became one continuous barrage of machine-gun fire. Black and yellow and red—so much red—zigzagged across his vision. A part of his brain registered Donald’s angry shout, “Who told you?”

“I overheard the two of you talking at the hospital. So what’s the story, Doc? And why are you covering for this
honorable
man here?”

The room, the voices, the whole world receded, leaving Samuel at the gaping precipice of yet another hastily dug mass grave.

Sixty-seven dead after the latest skirmish. At least that was how many dog tags Samuel had gathered. Hundreds more, hammered and bloodied, would never lift another rifle or march into another battle. After slogging through the blood-soaked battlefield, sifting through remains that often no longer even resembled a human being, Samuel tasted the bile rising in his throat. Arms, legs, hands, feet—bits and pieces of human flesh scattered across endless acres like some macabre jigsaw puzzle.

Invisible giant pincers squeezed the air from Samuel’s lungs and threatened to crush whatever life remained in his stammering, struggling heart. How many more would have to suffer and die before humanity—before God Himself—had had enough?

Sixty-seven dead. Sixty-seven bodies, or what was left of them, carried with as much grace and dignity as expedience would allow and laid to rest in one massive, anonymous grave. But Samuel knew their names, had made himself repeat and memorize each one as he turned their dog tags over to the battalion commander. Prayers had to be said, letters had to be written, families had to be comforted . . . when there was no comfort to be had.

Daylight faded as the last shovelfuls of dirt were scraped onto the funereal mound, when more shots rang out. Officers shouted commands. Return fire concussed the night air. Artillery from both sides arced overhead like shrieking red demons and blasted new craters into the already blackened, pockmarked earth.

Then the screams. The wretched, disbelieving screams of the wounded and dying.

Unbridled fury seared Samuel’s throat. Still standing at the graveside, he stumbled in the soft dirt, went to his knees, pushed up again. Foxholes and gun emplacements lay between him and the enemy, but he wouldn’t be deterred. “Please, God, make it stop! Make the killing stop!”

As he charged toward the battlefront, someone shouted his name. A doughboy clambered out of a foxhole and seized Samuel by the arm, nearly yanking him off his feet. “Padre! What are you doing? Get down!”

“Give me your rifle, Private—now!” Heaven be hanged, he’d fight like a
real
soldier if that’s what it took to end this bloody war.

“No, Padre, you can’t!”

“God’s deserted us. I’ll kill them all myself, every last one of them!” While enemy fire raged around them, Samuel grappled for control of the skinny kid’s weapon, but the boy held firm. “Your sidearm, then. Give me something I can fight with. I won’t—”

A shot. One single shot, close enough it rang in Samuel’s ears. He felt the recoil against his chest. His hand stung. And then he was cradling Private Braswell’s bleeding body, his own uniform soaked in Private Braswell’s blood.

“I killed him.” He sank to his knees—not in a stubbly field in France but on a plush Persian carpet in someone’s dimly lit parlor. “God forgive me, I killed him.”